Four Years On
by r4ven3
Summary: With each of these one shots I write, I believe I am writing my last one. Then, a week or three later another idea coalesces, so here I am, still doing this. This one shot is a Christmas offering, and while it might at first appear depressing, I perceive it to be an uplifting piece. Most of all I wish you all a peaceful and safe holiday season.


London – December 2015:

No-one understands self-deception like Harry Pearce. For many months after her death he'd seen Ruth everywhere – on the Grid, in the face of a stranger on the street, and in crowded shops and supermarkets. Even when knowing it couldn't possibly be her, his head had once swivelled towards a shopper who'd called out `Ruth' to his companion. It has been in his personal life that this gift, this aptitude for self-delusion has been most tested, often shattering the illusions he has woven around himself, illusions which allow him to get through each day.

Grief is the latent stalker which has accompanied him these past few years. Grief hides behind closed doors, and within dark cupboards rarely opened. He had sensed it on the Grid where it gathered in corners and darkened corridors, under desks, and behind monitors, ever present, simply waiting. He detects it on the streets of the city, swirling around crowds of Christmas shoppers, settling on shoulders, whispering in ears, gathering the hunted like a shepherd seeking sheep having wandered from the flock.

Wraith-like, grief still sometimes visits him, mostly during the hours of darkness, oozing under his bedroom door to join him in the bed where he sleeps alone; only grief has the power to deconstruct his carefully crafted world. He has much to grieve – loved colleagues, all three members of his family – but nothing throws him into a tailspin like the memory of the senseless loss of Ruth. When grief has him in its grasp he is incapable of clear thought. While alone he will rage and rant and bargain – often aloud – to no avail. While he maintains the outward appearance of balance and calm, beneath his skin all is in turmoil, a maelstrom of guilt and regret, a whirlpool of emotions which rarely makes sense, even to him. When he is visited by grief – less often these days – the depth of his sadness threatens to draw him so deeply inside himself that he almost loses the ability to breathe.

This will be the fifth Christmas since she'd died. Four years and five Christmases, and still the grief lingers, crawling up from deep inside him, from a sore which never quite heals. Four years, and his thoughts of her are less of sadness and regret, and more of the deep love they'd silently shared.

* * *

The long dark days and weeks after Ruth had died had been the worst, until less than a week before Christmas his phone had rung. He'd stared at the number on the screen, one unknown to him, having no intention of answering, until a spark of curiosity had kicked in.

He'd answered warily, poised to quickly end the call.

"Dad?"

That one word, spoken in a man's voice, had at first confounded him. Catherine and her fiance were spending a month in the US, and Alastair never called him Dad. Catherine's fiance had always called him Harry.

"Dad?" the voice said again. "It's me. Graham."

Harry's face had suddenly flushed as long-buried memories of angry judgements, and words he wished he'd never uttered all flood back to him, a tumbling tsunami of regret. _Christ, _he'd thought. _What now? Haven't we hashed over the past until it's __little__ more than __dust__?_

"Graham," he'd said calmly, like they'd only spoken the week before, rather than almost five years ago. "It's lovely to hear your voice."

"Yeah, yours also. I .. I need to talk. Something's happened, and I think you need to know .. about .. some stuff."

And so, on the Thursday evening before Christmas, barely ten weeks after Ruth had died, Harry had invited his son to join him for dinner.

"It's just pork chops and a few veg," Harry had explained, a little embarrassed that he hadn't at least had at the ready a roasted leg of lamb to welcome the prodigal son.

"I'll eat anything," Graham had replied. "Since I've been clean my appetite has returned."

Harry had been surprised, not only by Graham's wary smile when he'd opened the door to him, but by his eyes – bright and clear - his closely cropped hair, and his direct gaze. He'd ushered his son into the warmth of his kitchen, where he'd prepared a pot of tea. He'd much rather have marked the occasion with a fine whiskey, but in deference to Graham's sobriety he was happy to share the ritual of drinking tea. They'd sat at the table, father and son, face to face, no longer enemies, if in fact they ever had been.

"Last week I had a call from Cate," Graham had begun. "She suggested I contact you and .. share with you some recent events in my life. She .. told me about the woman you'd .. lost .."

Harry had nodded, silently wondering what else Catherine had thought a good idea to be sharing with her brother.

Only a few weeks earlier, before she and Alastair left for the States, Catherine had visited him at home. The Home Secretary had strongly suggested he take `compassionate leave', which Harry interpreted to mean he needed to take time off to grieve.

"Just until the new year, Harry," Towers had said carefully. "Just until you're feeling more ..."

"Optimistic?" he'd suggested, not bothering to conceal his sarcasm.

"No, not that. You need time away from work to regroup."

As Harry understood it, `regroup' was a buzz-word for pulling oneself together, to pretend that everything was normal, when in all probability nothing in his life would ever again be normal. It had taken until mid January for him to be able to put up the appearance of having successfully `regrouped'.

When Catherine had visited him she had commented on his mood. "Don't tell me," she'd said playfully. "Another one of your spooks has died." Seeing the shock on his face, Catherine's tone had immediately changed. "Oh, God. It's true, isn't it? And this one meant more than most .. didn't they?"

Needing to share his story with someone close to him, Harry had told his daughter about Ruth, about how she'd died, and how he was struggling to come to terms with her death. Catherine had listened without interrupting, and then grasped his shoulders, pulling him to her. Harry had been aware even then that the story of his loss had moved Catherine, bringing them closer than they'd ever been.

"I also had someone who died," Graham said at last, having poured his own tea, and then carefully and deliberately adding milk and sugar. Only then had he looked across the table to where his father was watching him. "My girlfriend."

_Graham had had a girlfriend?_ "What was her name?" Harry had asked, hungry for details, but knowing that the best place to begin was with a name.

Graham had sighed heavily. Harry understood that sigh. It was a sigh of resignation, of acknowledging an irrefutable truth. "Her name was Lara. She was .. seven years older than me, but the age difference didn't bother us." He took a careful sip of his tea before adding a drop more milk. "I met her four years ago. I knew I wanted to be with her, but when she declared that she'd only stay with me if I got clean, I knew it was time."

_Why hadn't Catherine said anything about this? _

As if reading his mind, Graham provided an answer. "I'm sorry if this is news to you, but I asked Mum and Catherine to keep this from you .. until I felt free to tell you. I wanted to make sure I was out of the woods and totally clean before I made contact." As if needing a moment to choose his words, Graham had looked away before continuing. "There's more, I'm afraid, and this is going to be a bit of a shock to you. We .. Lara and I .. had a son together."

"A child?" Harry could barely take it all in. Graham clean … with a partner .. who had recently died. And they had a _baby_. Again Graham had sighed. Harry had thought it best he just shut up and let Graham tell him the whole story. "Go on," Harry had said, once he'd caught Graham's eye.

"Jake … Jakob was born on May 6th last year. He's nineteen months old. Lara drove a motorcycle to work, and one morning in late September, when taking a right turn at traffic lights she lost control, and went into a slide. She was hit by an oncoming van. She died … instantly." Harry had waited while Graham regained composure. "Her parents took Jake to their house, informing me they thought it best that they bring him up. I'm planning to fight for him … in the courts .. but it might be a long battle to gain custody."

Harry is shocked. "But you're his father. Why won't they let you bring him up?" he asked.

"They never approved of me."

Overwhelmed by Graham's news, Harry had sat back, turning to look through his kitchen window at the dark night outside. He'd focused his gaze on the jagged silhouette of the treetops at the end of his garden. There was a part of him upset that he hadn't known anything about Graham's life, but he was also aware that his son had had his reasons, just as he'd had his reasons for keeping the story of Ruth from his children. Some things are just too painful to talk about.

"I can help you with that, Graham," he'd said at last, having brought his attention back to the room. "I have a good income, and a decent nest egg, and with no partner to share it with I'll gladly contribute towards your legal expenses." Harry hadn't thought before he'd made the offer. He hadn't had to. His only son needed help which he could provide, so provide it he would.

Graham, clearly humbled, had dropped his eyes from Harry's. "Thanks," he'd said at last, glancing up. "I won't say no, although that's not .. the reason I'm here."

"Graham, I'm only happy to be in a position to help you to -"

"There's more. There's another reason I'm here tonight, and it's also the reason I accepted your invitation to dinner. There's something I need to tell you. Something important. It's … this has sat between us since Cate and I were little."

In that moment Harry had sat back, thoughts of Ruth pushed aside as he'd contemplated what this could be about.

"Just before Cate and Alastair left for California Mum invited Cate and me to dinner. She had a confession to make to us, and indirectly to you also."

"_Me_?" Harry's mind drew a blank. He had little idea about what is ex-wife may have to confess to her two adult children.

"Putting it briefly, Mum confessed to us both how she'd manipulated the situation after you left the home. She told us how she'd made it difficult, and sometimes even impossible for you to maintain regular contact with us. She'd deny you access at times when you were free to see us, and then when she knew you'd be tied up with work she'd demand you take us for a few days, then when you couldn't, you became the father who didn't really love us. The only memories I have from that time are of Mum explaining to us that you were busy – again – and too busy to see us. Over time the message morphed into one where she loved us so much more than you possibly could."

Of course the news of Jane's behaviour in the years following their separation was not news to him, but that she'd confessed as much to her children was surprising to Harry. Jane had never been one to readily admit to her faults. Again he sighs.

"She wanted us to know, expressly so we don't play the same mind games with our own kids, should a similar situation arrive in our lives."

"And how did Catherine take the news?"

For the first time since he'd taken a seat at his kitchen table his son had grinned widely, showing his teeth, still even, still intact, his grey eyes lighting up. "Not well. You know how volatile Cate can be. She accused Mum of not valuing her relationship with Alastair, and declared that she'd never in a million years use her children in that way."

"How did your mother take that?"

"On the chin. I suspect she was prepared for a certain amount of push back. But .. more importantly .. another reason I wanted to see you was to apologise for the way I've kept you out of my life. It wasn't just you. In all probability it never was you. It was Mum, aiming to get back at you for not being the kind of husband she wanted you to be. Cate and I just got caught in the crossfire."

Harry had nodded, hoping Graham wouldn't see how deeply this confession had moved him.

What a strange year it had been, He had gained, and in a matter of minutes lost the love of his life, only to soon after be reunited with his son.

Swings and roundabouts.

* * *

London - 25th December, 2015:

That had been four years ago. The legal battle for Graham's custody of Jakob had taken almost a year, during which time Harry had decided he was ready to retire, although full retirement had not happened for another year. Graham and Jake are spending Christmas day with him, while Catherine and Alastair had opted to spend the holiday with Alastair's family in Brighton.

Given the day was cold and calm with heavy cloud cover and little chance of rain, Graham had suggested they spend the morning visiting the graves of Lara and Ruth. Being the closest to Harry's house the first port of call was the grave of Lara, Jake's mother. Harry had stood back while Graham had squatted at the foot of the grave, five-year-old Jake standing stoically beside him, one small hand on his father's shoulder. Harry had silently questioned the wisdom of taking a young child on a graveyard crawl, but is prepared to trust Graham. In the end, he has to applaud his son's judgement.

"Is Mummy in the ground?" the little boy had asked, pointing one yellow-mittened hand towards the base of the headstone.

"She's in our hearts, son," Graham had replied. "It's only her body which is buried in the soil."

"Won't she get cold?" Jake asked, from inside the warmth of his thick, red anorak. "I don't want her to be cold."

"No, mate. While we keep her in our hearts she'll never be cold again."

While Harry had been reluctant to have company while he visited Ruth's grave, he also acknowledged that it was time he left the bubble of isolation he'd created for himself since Ruth had died. The drive to the graveyard where Ruth is interred takes almost an hour, and from his car-seat Jake sings a series of simple songs Harry had never heard before.

Apart from Jake's singing, they had been travelling in silence when Graham suddenly speaks from the seat beside Harry. "Do you still miss her? Ruth, I mean."

Harry takes some time to answer this most personal of questions. He wants to be completely honest with his son. "I miss what we almost had together," he says carefully. "We should at least have had that. And I think of her every day, so yes, I still miss her." He turns towards Graham. "Do you still miss Lara?"

"I do, especially since Jake so resembles her. He has her same determination." Harry suspects Jake has also inherited some of the Pearce determination. Several minutes pass before Graham again speaks. "A month ago I met someone. Her name's Amy. She's .. nice, and so different from Lara. I guess you could call her quirky. She's a musician. She writes songs. She's even written some little songs especially for Jake. He's been singing them .. today."

"Amy's songs," Jake calls out from his car-seat. "I like the one about the squirrel."

"Sing it for Pop," Graham says, catching his son's eye in the rear view mirror. "It's only since I met her that I'm ready to .. attempt to move on."

Harry nods, eyes on the road ahead. In that moment he envies the resilience of the young.

"What about you, Dad?" Graham asks quietly, once Jake has finished singing about the squirrel who fell out of a tree.

"What about me?" Harry's eyes never leave the road.

"Are you open to meeting someone else? After all, it's been four years, and you're not that old .. yet."

Harry sighs. Catherine had already made a similar suggestion. "I'm fine with being single. I'm not likely to again meet anyone like Ruth, and besides, I'm not terribly .. skilled in relationships of a personal nature."

"So you're scared then?" Graham counters, his voice still low.

Harry quickly glances at his son to see his eyes on him. Harry turns his attention back to the road and nods. "I don't think I could bear to lose another person I loved." That's about it, really. "But I admire you for again dipping your toes into the relationship pool."

Harry is relieved when Graham says nothing more on the subject, and Jake launches into a rambling song about badgers. Harry suspects that Jake is making up this song as he goes.

Ruth's headstone, as simple and straight-forward as she had been complicated, always depresses him. The stark fact of her death, etched in stone, reminds him that unlike her leaving after Cotterdam, this time Ruth will not be returning. While he had visited her grave each week for the first year after her death, his visits were becoming less frequent, not because he aimed to forget her, or that he cared any less for her, but because each time he'd visited her grave his attempts to keep his grief in check had left him exhausted and depressed. Having not visited her grave since her birthday in late April, Harry is nervous about his reaction to the stark reality of her final resting place.

He need not have worried. When they reach the grave, Graham stands back, leaving Jake to decide where he is needed most. The child stands beside Harry, eventually reaching for his grandfather's hand.

"Is this lady in your heart, Pop?" he asks, gazing up at Harry.

Surprised by the little boy's insight, Harry turns to him and nods. "She's always in my heart, Jake. Even before she died I carried her in my heart."

Jake, with wisdom honed from his own experience of loss, says nothing more, while Harry squeezes his hand in thanks. Thanks to Ruth, and Graham and Jake, the grief which had haunted him for over four years has been replaced by love, and (surprisingly for a melancholic like him) even some moments of hope and joy. Harry is grateful for what he has, and for what he'd had before it had been taken from him. On this day of celebrating the gift of giving you can't ask for more than that.


End file.
